


Refiner's Fire

by Paradoxically



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Because I'm not responsible enough to write something with plot right now, F/M, Fluff, One Shot Collection, Plot? What Plot?, Really I'm just here to torture characters, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxically/pseuds/Paradoxically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't need his forgiveness. And I shan't ask for it.' My shoulders dropped back as my chin shot up, my body square to his as my hands fisted in the folds of my dress. His eyes dropped to my chest, an appreciative smirk plastered across his face. Oh, how I dearly wished to smack that smug, proprietary look off of his face. </p>
<p>'While standing like that makes your tits look fantastic, it's not exactly going to get you far in a fight,' he chuckled, stalking forward with an exaggerated swagger. A faint flicker of pain shadowed his face, so quickly there and gone that I would have missed it before-- before the Cauldron, before everything Fae had invaded my body."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confrontation

"You know, Rhys won't forgive you for all of the years you let Feyre carry the burden of providing for your family."

I whirled, too long legs catching on each other--I had to fling one hand out to brace myself against the armoire as a faint voice in my head cried wrong, wrong, wrong. This body--the wrongness of it lit an ember of anger in me. And him--He was leaning in my doorway, narrowed eyes above a feral smile. The membraneous wings flared behind him were still faintly reddened with scar tissue and the insolence in his stance was provoking. He just oozed impertinence. And the way that his eyes dropped from my head, to my toes, and back again? It was enough to fan that ember of anger into a flame. I wrapped myself in the fire--I needed it, needed the fire of a forge to make me stronger, to burn away the dross and shape my weapons, so I could face the battles ahead. My nostrils flared as I realized this little confrontation might only be the beginning of a war with my personal tormentor. 

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't need his forgiveness. And I shan't ask for it." My shoulders dropped back as my chin shot up, my body square to his as my hands fisted in the folds of my dress. His eyes dropped to my chest, an appreciative smirk plastered across his face. Oh, how I dearly wished to smack that smug, proprietary look off of his face. 

"While standing like that makes your tits look fantastic, it's not exactly going to get you far in a fight," he chuckled, stalking forward with an exaggerated swagger. A faint flicker of pain shadowed his face, so quickly there and gone that I would have missed it before-- before the Cauldron, before everything Fae had invaded my body. No matter--I could see his weaknesses that much better now. So he was still stiff then, had probably let himself be trounced during one of Rhys' frustration fueled bouts. My eyes narrowed and I pursed my lips, ready to deliver a scathing retort-as soon as I thought of one--about his crippled wings. Even if he was making it rather difficult, fixing me in place with those hazel eyes. Or maybe it was the way that the latent magic buzzed and plucked at my skin, fraying my hold on myself. Damn him, he was breaking what little control I had managed so far. And then his voice tore me from my thoughts again. "Though I do suppose you have a rather nice view of the ceiling, your nose up in the air like that. And it is a magnifient ceiling, I suppose. Rhys is proud enough of it. But if I'm being honest, princess," and here his voice dropped to a gravelly growl, reverberating in my too-sensitive ears, "the way it exposes your neck is practically an invitation."

My lip lifted in a half-snarl as he lifted one hand towards me. This was history repeating itself, with me in a new body. Cassian was so, so close now, but I held my ground against his predatory advance. I would not retreat, not surrender. That feral smile flashed over his face again as he stepped closer again, waiting for me to cry craven or for the slightest movement of my knee. And then I remembered, remembered the way his eyes plumbed the depths of soul. For a moment, the angry flames I had wrapped myself in flickered and a wave of vulnerability washed over me; I clenched my eyes shut as I rallied my anger, lips parted to say--

And then the broad, callused pad of his thumb caught against the tender column of my throat, the heat of his skin like a fire-brand, sweeping down slowly, then back up, tantalizing and excruciating all at once. I froze, becoming preternaturally still, as his thumb came to rest on my pulse point. The same point he had teased with his mouth before. The sensation was overwhelming, mind-numbing in this new body. All reason vanished as I shuddered beneath his touch. My eyes snapped open to meet his sharp gaze and I cursed myself for freezing like a rabbit as my heart began to pound--no matter the sensation pouring through me, my instincts were still human, still prey. No wonder the Fae had slaughtered us--them--so easily. And Cassian's smile grew wide, his white teeth gleaming as I staggered a step back, straight into the armoire. His remaining fingers curled around my throat, gently hugging tight to my skin as he leaned in close, shadowing us with his dark wings. His mouth found my ear, his breath hot and quick as he whispered "No fight left, princess? And here I was hoping for a delightful little tussle."

Rage bubbled and boiled in my veins then, the fire of it licking my bones. I lunged for him, my right hand fisted in anger. His hand dropped from my throat to catch my fist, cradling it tenderly. Somehow, that only made my angrier. I threw my head back, and then forward, catching him a glancing blow across the chin. He fell back from the hit howling with laughter, holding both hands up and away from me as I lashed out with my knee--I caught him in the hip. Clearly he remembered our last encounter. "Truce," he coughed out between laughs as I advanced on him, "truce." 

I narrowed my eyes warily, hands still fisted. I would flay him alive for this. "Bastard," I spat, " You deserve to have that hand broken."

His grin wavered. A hit, then. He looked me up and down again then, assessing.

"Dirty mouth there, princess. I'd like to see you try to do it. "

He paused, that feral smile returning. Whatever it was that he was about to say, I knew I wasn't going to like it. I pursed my lips and he only smiled wider.

"Hell, I'll even teach you how to do it."


	2. Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this one's angsty...
> 
> Apologies in advance. It also vaguely references a scene I've not written yet--basically where Cassian makes a confession and Nesta is a bit vicious about rejecting him. Poor baby bat

Cassian's wooden staff cracked across my knuckles, forcing me to drop my own weapon. The loud clatter interrupted the sounds of my labored breathing, while Cassian merely grunted "Again".

"No," I gasped, rubbing my stinging hand. "No more."

He sighed my name, pinching the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was tired--there were always dark circles under his eyes now, and faint wrinkles across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, as if he was consciously holding off pain. It had been a constant expression on his face since that night I had been so much more vicious than I had intended, when I had spurned his heartfelt confession because I was too afraid of my own heart. He rubbed his temples and groaned in frustration.

As if I was giving him a headache. As if I were a burden. The thought pierced my heart like a shard of ice.

"Nesta," he began again, picking up my staff, "We only have so much time to train. Please don't make this about pride or.. or feeling inadequate, or being angry, or whatever it is."

I jerked back, as if struck. He reached for me, slowly, curling calloused fingers around my bicep, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across my skin. It felt--it felt like being grounded, like coming home, like a missing piece had been restored, all at once. 

And then he ruined it by opening his stupid mouth. 

"Feyre told me, once, that she thought you felt things more deeply, more strongly, than others. That you burned with it. Please-just tell me what it is. Help me understand." 

I hated him in that moment, for being kind in the face all that I had done to him, after all the ways that I had lashed out at him. I hated him for making him see myself, and I hated what I saw. 

"Feyre is presumptuous. She has no idea about what I feel, what I think, and it's not any of her business," I spat. 

He only wrapped his calloused fingers tighter around my bicep. "She is your sister and also my friend, Nesta. And no one can know what you think if you don't tell any of us. If you don't let any of us help. If you insist on pushing me away." His voice had taken on a subtle, frustrated growl again.

My blood went cold, quenching the forge fire in my heart. I tore myself away from his grip and stepped away and immediately I felt... bereft. Broken. A hollow ache echoed between my ribs at the loss of his touch. I had let myself become weak then, if I needed him, after promising myself that I would stop caring for him. I could not afford to be weak. And so I raised my chin and let the bitter words fall from my tongue. 

"So you will choose her over me. I made the right choice then." He flinched from the venom in my voice, but still advanced.

His wings snapped open, filling the room as he stalked towards me. Backlit by the fire in the hearth, face wreathed in iron determination, it struck me that this, this was the commander of the Night Court armies, a warrior capable of such great destruction, and yet so much more able and free to give of himself than I was. So much braver in his vulnerability. 

"She is my High Lady," he growled, voice dropping to an even more primal register, "and you know that his has nothing to do with choosing one of you over the other. But if you insist on seeing it that way, if you insist on choosing to hate everyone and everything," he inhaled deeply, bracing himself, and I felt my heart quail despite knowing I had finally pushing him away-- _don't go, don't go, don't go, don't say it, don't leave me_ \-- as I watched his jaw clench, as he hardened his face, "and torment yourself, torment me, then you can do it alone. I can't be a part of it anymore."

It was like all of the bones in my body were broken, the marrow drawn out with a thousand piercing knives and salt poured into the absence and still I needed to keep my mask in place. This--this was worse than the Cauldron. Worse than the smothering, the suffocation, the bruising hold of Hybern guards pushing me forward, holding me under. 

Worse, because it was my own fault, my own doing. 

Worse still, that he walked away without looking back

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the result of forcing myself to write again... It's been awhile. Feelin' rusty.
> 
> Feel free to throw out some prompt ideas and/or let me know what you think.


End file.
